


Winter's Kiss

by Morgan (morgan32)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-19
Updated: 2009-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:58:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos comes bearing gifts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a Christmas gift for sesaworuban.

The snow was falling heavily now, filling in the ruts where cars had churned up the last snowfall, covering the footprints on the pavement. Last night's snowfall had frozen and the crust crunched beneath Methos' feet as he broke through with each step. The thickly-falling snow muffled all sound, giving an illusion of solitude, but it was only an illusion.

Pausing at a corner, Methos caught sight of his reflection in a window. With his red scarf and knitted hat, snow clinging to his head and shoulders, he looked like Santa Claus. Without the long, white beard, although, Methos reflected, he certainly had the years to merit one. The thought brought a smile to his lips. A sleigh pulled by reindeer would be an interesting choice of transport for the streets of Paris.

He headed across the road and saw the neon sign of _Le Blues Bar_ ahead. The sign was alight, which was a relief: Methos hadn't been sure the bar would be open. With these weather conditions, there wouldn't be much custom. Then again, Joe's apartment was above the bar, so he didn't have much excuse to stay closed.

Heat hit Methos like a wall as he opened the door to the bar. He stamped his feet to knock the snow off his boots, stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

"Hey, Santa, you're two days early!" Joe called from behind the bar.

Just the sound of Joe's voice was enough to make Methos' heart leap. He took off his hat and feigned a sour look. He moved forward, dripping melting snow, to take his usual seat at the bar.

"Beer?" Joe offered, and when Methos didn't answer at once, he added, "Or I've got mulled wine upstairs."

Methos had planned this to seem like an ordinary visit. He wanted to walk in as if he did so every day, pretend he hadn't been away for years. But Joe's nonchalant offer had Methos beaten. It cracked his composure and he smiled. "That sounds like nirvana."

"Lock the door for me, then," Joe suggested.

Methos looked around, realising they were alone in the bar. Brightly coloured foil streamers hung from the ceiling between the lights and a fake tree stood in one corner, gaudily decorated with tinsel and lights flashing red-blue-green, the whole thing topped by a lopsided star. It looked like the set of _The Christmas That Taste Forgot_. Refraining from commentary, Methos did as Joe asked, sliding the bolts home to lock the door and switching off the neon sign. There would be custom later, no doubt, but closing for an hour would be no loss. He stripped off his coat as he followed Joe to the stairs.

There was a stairlift installed. That was new, and for a moment it saddened Methos to see his friend getting old. Had he been away so long? Joe never found stairs easy and when he first bought the bar he'd had the original staircase knocked out and replaced it with one easier for him to climb, but he _had_ climbed.

Methos schooled his features to indifference and followed the powered chair upward. "Speaking of Santa..." he began, reaching into his pocket, "I come bearing gifts." He glanced around the apartment. Ah, much better. The seasonal decoration was tasteful and understated: a small tree with red and silver baubles, white fairy lights (not flashing). Carefully placed sprigs of holly decorated the walls, and there were unlit candles on the mantle and the table. "You let someone else decorate the bar, didn't you?"

"I'll get your wine," Joe grunted. "Make yourself at home."

Methos took him at his word, hanging his coat and laying his hat and scarf over the heater to dry. He selected a chair and made himself comfortable, laying the envelope containing his gift over his knees.

Joe returned with the promised glass of wine. He brushed Methos' fingers as he passed him the hot glass. The touch was briefly electric, reminding Methos of Joe's younger days. Joe's body might be older, but his eyes sparkled and his spirit still shone with energy.

"You're freezing!" Joe exclaimed.

It was true enough but Methos shrugged. "This will warm me." He raised the glass to his lips. The sweet scents of cloves, cinnamon and warm red wine filled his nostrils. He sipped the wine. It was sweeter than he would have made it himself, but the drink was immediately warming. He nodded approval. "I wasn't expecting the snow to be this bad," he commented, "but I've seen worse. The main roads are clear."

"But you still showed up looking like you'd trekked through an Arctic blizzard." Joe's eyes crinkled with amusement and he sank slowly into an armchair. "Ah, that's better," he sighed. "I'm getting old."

Methos had been thinking the same thing, but he wouldn't let the conversation turn that way. "_You're_ getting old? What does that make me?"

Joe made a show of considering it. "Antique?" he suggested judiciously. "Vintage, maybe. How about Fossil?"

"Fossil!" Methos exclaimed, mock-offended.

Joe laughed. After a moment, Methos joined him.

***

Laughter was good. Laughter deflected the awareness of mortality that Methos' sudden appearance brought to Joe. It wasn't Methos' fault.

If it were possible, Methos looked younger than ever. Joe watched his long, elegant fingers cupping the wine glass as he drank. Joe saw Methos' tongue peek out, licking his lips as he swallowed. His dark hair was longer than the last time Joe saw him; maybe that was why he seemed so young. It made Joe all the more aware of the grey in his own hair and beard, and of the ache in his bones. It made him self-conscious.

His age never mattered to Methos, Joe reminded himself. _Fossil_ was a bit unfair but _antique_ seemed about right. "So, what brings you here?" he asked. "And where have you been?"

"You're supposed to know where I've been. Or have you retired from the Watchers?"

_Retired. Thanks, man._ "Last I heard you were in Havana," Joe told him gruffly. "But that was months ago."

Methos winced a little and Joe stifled a grin. Revenge was sweet.

"Havana," Methos repeated. "Yes, I had to leave there..."

"...In a hurry," Joe supplied, chuckling. "The Watchers lost track of you after that."

"Good!" Methos drained the wine glass and Joe didn't have to ask what he meant: if Methos was trying to outwit pursuit the Watchers had no chance of finding him. He had too much experience on his side.

Methos went on, "I found a fox hole in Japan, but sushi gets boring after a while so I thought Christmas in Paris would be fun." He rolled his eyes. "What was I thinking?"

Joe laughed again. "The white Christmas too much for you?"

"Heavens, no, I've lived through Siberian winters. It's the _muzak_."

"Ah, so _that's_ why you showed up here!"

"It's not the only reason, but I have missed hearing you play."

Joe hesitated. "Let me get you a refill." He struggled up and took the empty glass from Methos. He walked into the kitchen. Reached for the wine.

"Do you want me to leave?" Methos asked softly. He was in the open doorway.

Joe looked up and saw worry in his friend's eyes. "Do I look that bad?" he asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

"You look wonderful," Methos answered. He came into the room. Reaching out, he took the wine glass from Joe's hand. He smiled as he met Joe's eyes and the smile was wicked, knowing, reminding Joe of late nights in Seacouver, long conversations after the bar was closed, leisurely seductions... "I haven't given you your Christmas present yet," Methos said.

Joe tried to speak and failed. He cleared his throat. Damn, Methos could still distract the hell out of him. "Present?" he repeated, then, because he didn't want Methos to see just how distracted he was, he added, "You must be after something."

Methos gave him little-boy-innocent eyes, laying a hand on his chest in mock-sincerity. "I'm hurt."

"Like hell."

Methos inched closer, offering a slim white envelope to Joe.

Joe accepted the envelope, with no jokes this time. He opened it and examined the contents. Hardly able to believe it, he looked up. "What's this?"

"Five days of the best jazz and blues in the world. The festival starts right after New Year. I'm surprised you didn't know about it."

"I knew about it. These tickets are like gold dust. But...why?"

"When I saw it I thought of you."

Joe raised a sceptical eyebrow. "You're being far too generous, Methos. What's going on?"

Methos gently took the envelope from Joe's hands, laying it down beside the still-empty wine glass. "If I confess to an ulterior motive, will you accept the gift?"

Joe grinned. "I'll accept it anyhow, you old scoundrel." Methos could teach the devil himself about temptation, he was sure. "What ulterior motive?"

"I thought we might go together. I enjoy the music more in the company of a musician, and..." his smile became wicked again, "it will give me a chance to ply you with liquor and sell my fell designs."

"Fell designs? What have you done with the real Methos?"

He pulled a face. "It sounds more romantic that 'drag you into my bed', doesn't it? Joe, I missed you. Is that clear enough?"

It was unmistakable. Joe turned his body slowly so he could face Methos. "It's been a long time, Adam."

"Even longer since you called me that." His smile became almost shy, then faded.

"Maybe I'm feeling nostalgic," Joe answered. He closed the small distance between them. He could feel Methos' breath, warm on his lips. Methos' fingers closed over Joe's free hand. He jerked a little: Methos' hands were still cold. Then the distance was gone and they kissed.

It was just a touch, but it took Joe back many years. Back to a time when he could match Methos' energy, whether for talking late into the night or for other late-night activities. Back to the days before arthritis stole the music from his hands, if not from his heart. Before he was old...though with Methos in his arms he was beginning to feel very young.

Joe took a long time over the kiss.

When he drew back, his voice came out breathy and low. "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to be welcome. I should have come sooner."

Joe shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Will you stay for Christmas?"

"Don't you have plans? Amy?"

"Amy's a Watcher. D'you think she'll turn down a chance to have Methos at the dinner table?"

Methos groaned.

Joe added, "And if she does, we can make our own entertainment."

"Now that," Methos nodded, "sounds like an offer I can't refuse."


End file.
